Tough Leather Boots: Of Love and Liberte
by Isabela Puccini
Summary: Love. Liberty. Travel. Chocolate. And of course, boots. This is a story made with solid reality, a dash of humor, a cup of adventure, and a pinch of romance. Roux's life, and everything in it. (IN COMA)
1. Chapter 1

I'd like to start out by saying that I don't know where this fic is going to go. It could end up in a death, a life, maybe even a romance. Though, probably not romance because I'm just a whole lot worse at writing that kind of stuff. Trust me, I'm bollocks. Anyway, let's not think about that. Let's pretend I'm actually a decent writer and CAN create an enjoyable fic. Just flow with me for a sec, okay?

This, is a story about outlaws. It's about outcasts, wanderers, and all those I've missed- which I'm sure is a lot. Simply, this is a story of boots. You know that much from the title, don't you! How very clever you must have been to figure that out! Good job! I congratulate you! ::hands reader gold star::

Now, to the fic that I'm still thinking about! Yeah! Hoo hah, everyone! HOO HAH.

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**Tough Leather Boots:**

**Of Love & Liberté**

Chapter 1: a taste of ireland.

Music. It's what drove them. It was the one thing that they could all relate to when they met. Not on any set day in particular, they would all gather together on some family's bateau, and the men would play their guitars while the women sang songs of their heritage. That was the way things were done on the river. That was the way they liked it, and nothing was going to change if they could help it. Of course, everyone this side of Spain knew that. Their culture stretched from the southern borders of Portugal to the northern most tips of Ireland. And that, is where our story begins...

Peter McNally was this young boy's name. He was a pale, scrawny child who lived in his father's small, three room cottage. The cottage sat on Lamb's End, a single-lane dirt road that served as the highway into town. Young McNally was barely six years old, yet he still enjoyed chasing the girls that strolled by his father's cottage every morning. It was his favorite pastime, actually. Peter was a charmer at heart. From the moment his big eyes flipped open with the light of a new day, he was running out to the road, to try and catch Colleen Barnes from down the road, or Missy O'Fallon from even farther. He liked to pop out from behind the wall and scare them, then chase them around until they all started laughing. It was a good game, for Peter and his friend.

Because of course, Peter was never causing trouble alone. He and the shopkeeper's boy from up the High Street had had more than a few chases together over the years. The routine was the same: whoever got down to the main road first would wait for the other, and then they would talk until a girl walked by. Sometimes, on bright days, Missy or Colleen would remember that the two boys would be waiting for them that day, and would take another route instead. For some reason, they didn't seem to appreciate how funny it was when Peter chased them and they squealed when he tried to toss up their skirts. Sadly, he'd never been as successful at this game as the shopkeeper's boy. As for the girls, they seemed to think it was _rude, _those mad lasses.

The older widows that lived next door had recently taken a liking to calling the shopkeeper's boy and Peter "best friends." It must have been true then, Peter supposed. They did laugh a lot, and there was no one else that Peter liked to play Chaser with more.

So you can see how what happened one morning came as a surprise to young Peter McNally.

He waited there for a long time. For close to two hours, Peter sat on the low, stone wall that divided his father's property from everyone else's. His friend had been late before, but he'd never not come at all. Peter's heart was a little broken.

Not one of them, Peter, Colleen, or Missy, ever saw the shopkeeper's son again. Some rumors said that trolls ate him, others, more realistic ones, said that the boy ran away. None of them knew that the boy's father didn't speak to him. No one but he, knew that his father loved his store more than his own son. None of them knew that the shopkeeper's boy was a lonely child who liked to take walks to the ocean, to see the green hills of Scotland. No one ever knew, until he was gone.

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There. I give the shortest chapter on earth. I'd put it as a prologue but the system will just call it a chapter anyway so- what the hell. I'm throwing in a lot of chocolate into this story, to let you all know now. Because... well... chocolate rocks. And the story gets better, I swear! ::crosses heart:: Next chapter coming up soon. 


	2. Chapter 2

Alright then. Here's Chapter 2, and all I can say is that I'm going to make it better than the first one (hopefully). I've taken a leaf out of Neon Daisy's book, and I think I'm gonna actually THANK people from now on. It's just much better than just ignoring people!

**BarleyShadow**: Why hello again! I do hope you're still writing strong. If so, that's brilliant, and if not, get to work! And you're right, reviews are everything – we would be lost without them. Thanks about the "going places" comment. And I'm sorry that Roux had to have a bad relationship with his dad but, what else would make him leave? Sorry, but I needed a reason, and I distinctly made it so that Roux was never physically hurt by his dad.

**Dawnie-7**: I'm sorry I've got your tearing up! Lol. Don't feel so bad, Peter will get over it. He's a tough kid. Thanks SO much for reviewing!!! You're an awesome reviewer, going around, reviewing all my stories. It's spiffy, lemme tell you.

**Elraralia**: Bless you for reviewing! And you're my first, too! ::gives gold star:: Feel special! And I'm immensely glad that you like it so far, I'm going to make it better, too, so hang tight.

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Chapter 2: golden-foiled sweets.

Long ago in the depths of Southern France, a culture was born amongst the murky river water. Some came from the towns, where they weren't wanted; others came from the Far East, where they were put down because of the color of their skin; and still others came down from the north or the south, to get away from the lives they were leading. But there had always been one thing that they all had in common – they all wanted a place to belong. These were the Gypsies or River People – depending on their location. They were a family, and that's all that counted, at least to them.

One of these so called gypsy Families was comfortably occupying their Bateau, which was floating down one of France's many rivers at a slow pace. Several other boats circled the larger, and so they moved in a closely huddled group. It was late spring, and the gorgeous blossoms of nature were in high stock. They swayed back and forth in the warm southern breeze. The moon above was shaped in a thin milky crescent, hanging in the air with an ever-near presence. Though its light was faint, it still managed to illuminate the many small boats that sailed beneath it. A stocky man stood at the bow of this largest Bateau, overlooking the wide river as they surged with its current. He was the lookout for the night. Most men would be frustrated about this shift, especially tonight, but this man didn't mind in the least. He loved the sights and smells of the French moonlit night more than anything the Family was doing inside. Three long tables could be seen on the boat's upper-most deck, covered with plates, empty food trays and used silverware. A woman wearing a very conservative dress could be seen on the poop deck with three or four little children running in circles around her, shouting and laughing about some unknown humor.

These were the only gypsies to be seen on deck. All the rest were down below, enjoying a well-deserved party. Now make no mistake, a gypsy party wasn't much different from your regular citizens'. They had their entertainment, refreshments, dancing, the whole works. Gypsies simply weren't the savages that many respectable townsfolk made them out to be. They were decent people, and had their get-togethers just the same...

A young girl jumped on the table, nearly knocking it over, and lifted her skirt just high enough to dance with ease. Many of the men stared at her ankles – both they and the girl was clearly drunk. Drinks were being handed around from nowhere, and every once in a while, an older man would snatch back a glass of stolen beer from his grandson.

People danced, people laughed, and a single man sang in some eastern language at the head of the room. Four men sat on either side of the singer, pounding low beats on their drums. A boy with maracas and a girl striking a tambourine stood by the drummers. More men were set up by the lead singer, some clapping their hands in beat with the music, others with bells, wooden flutes, or more drums. And there, one man sat on a crab crate, by the girl with the tambourine, strumming a wooden guitar with skilled fingers.

The music was so addictive, no one could possibly resist. Soon enough, the crowd of gypsies were singing along, and most of them had joined in, clapping their hands and stomping their feet in perfect rhythm with the rest of the band. The song ended, and another quickly began as the singer went to get a drink. Meanwhile, the rest of the band played and played, never stopping the music for more than a few seconds. The sound of the guitarist could be heard more clearly now. He struck each note with meaning, sending it ringing around the room, followed by the next and the next at a fast, precise pace.

This went on for hours, until the guests started to filter out of the main room in small groups. They were traveling back to their own boats, their own beds, to sleep for the remaining night. The children and their parents were the first to leave, and so most of the single folk were left to their dancing. But in the end, these would disappear too. And then, the only ones left would be the few members of the band that had enough energy to keep them going.

The girl with the tambourine was not among those that remained. She had left quite early on to get back to her little boat and her father. He had left her at the party, trusting that she would be alright by herself. And this was true, nothing would happen to her here, on their itinerant territory. Any gypsy that knew her face had the responsibility of looking after her, whether they knew her personally or not. But of course that was the way of a gypsy Family: they had unconditional trust and love for one another.

The girl climbed over the side of the Bateau, still holding her tambourine, and clung closely to a rope that hung down from above. From here she shimmed carefully down, until her feet felt the hard, polished deck of her home. Their boat was one of the smallest in the Family, and it was nothing compared to the Bateau that towered above her now. She turned around, wiping a sheet of dark hair around her head, and squinted through the darkness. The moonlight just barely lit up her face; she couldn't have been older than ten. However, the crescent moonlight from above wasn't nearly bright enough to light up the boat fully, and she couldn't make out anything past forms and outlines. The girl started to walk forward, letting her hair fall into her face when she leaned ahead. _He could be in the back_, she thought, and headed in that direction. Calling out his name was a last resort, seeing as her other sleeping kin were in such close proximity. So instead she tried not to make a sound, and crept on.

A few seconds passed, and she reached the back of the boat. He wasn't there. Then, from out of the darkness, the pale moonlight hit a hand as it snuck out to grab the girl's shoulder – and it was not her father's. She screamed.

That scream had caused more damage than calling her father's name could have ever had. A couple of snores ceased in the background, and there were more than a dozen different growls, followed by several inaudible curse words. The guitarist from the party laughed into his sleeve, and the girl turned.

"_You_..." she whispered in a cold tone that surpassed her years.

The guitarist looked down at her, still smiling. "You shouldn't have screamed, little lass. You've gone and woken up our neighbors."

"That's _your _fault." The girl pouted, folding her arms in distaste.

But this wouldn't put a frown on the guitarist's face. He tilted his head down, eyes still on her, and put a hand behind his back. "Will you forgive me? I've brought you a present..."

A small round something wrapped in golden foil appeared from around the guitarist's back. The girl's eyes lit up. "Oh wow!"

She snatched the piece of candy and put it hastily in her dress pocket. "Now don't go eatin' it right away," said the guitarist sarcastically.

The girl grinned broadly and wrapped the guitarist in a hug. "I'm saving it," she said.

There came a loud 'SH!' from a couple boats over. "Alright!" Said the guitarist loudly, and another inaudible curse word drifted across the water toward them. The guitarist turned back to the girl.

"What sort of candy is it?" Said the girl excitedly.

The guitarist shook his head. "It's a surprise."

The girl stomped her foot and heaved a great sigh. "I hate your surprises."

"That's just because you're impatient, little lass." The guitarist reasoned. "And patience is an impor'ant virtue, you know."

"You sound like Papa," the girl mocked. She started to giggle, but the guitarist quickly hushed her for fear of another outburst from their neighbors.

"You wouldn't be _lookin'_ for your father, now would you?" He asked.

"Of course I am!" The girl squealed.

"Well you won't be finding him on here." The guitarist said before throwing a glance around the small boat. "He's still on watch up on deck."

The girl scowled and looked at her feet. "He said he'd be down here before the party was over."

"Don't fret, Roslin. I'll go and fetch him for you. And eat your candy." The guitarist patted her head.

He stood up and started to make his way to the rope Roslin had first climbed down. Her hand quickly shot down to her pocket, so that she could feel the foil of her candy once more. "Roux!" She said suddenly.

The guitarist turned. "You called, little lass?"

Roslin bit her bottom lip and tried not to smile. "Don't tell Papa about the candy, okay? I'm not sure he'd like me having sweets so late..."

Roux smiled and gave her a little salute. "Aye, aye, Madame Roslin."

Then Roux turned and started to climb the rope with ease, and was back up on the Bateau in a matter of seconds, disappearing with the shadows. As for Roslin, she was left in the misty twilight, still fondling the piece of candy in her pocket. Slowly, almost secretively, she pulled it out and let its golden foil glint in the moonlight. Followed by the very noisy sound of crinkling plastic and a happy smile from a little girl. A pint-sized chocolat sweet lie in Roslin's hand next to an empty wrapper. _Chocolat... her favorite._

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There. Not as long as I would have liked it, but it got the job done. Please R&R!


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Mindless Scribbles:

About the reviews: wow. I mean... really wow. The reviews- incredibly inspirational. It's a great thing to have such complements _actually_ directed toward me. You know, it took me a while, but now I can sort of tell that my strong point in writing is probably description. It's not definite, now... but it's _probable._ And I'm just gonna take that as a good thing because well... that's basically what writing is, isn't it? Description. Huh. ::reflects:: That's just interesting...

About the story: I've only changed one thing about the movie, people. I just made it so that Roux didn't go back to Vianne. Instead, he just kept wandering. Easy enough? Alright then.

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Chapter 3 

The music has ceased for the moment, but the chatter of the party still lingered – if not a little softer. The scene was much like that of some old Cuban bar or club. But that wasn't the scene at all. It was breakfast time on the top deck of the gypsy Bateau and the whole Family had gathered there for the morning feast while they sat, anchored to the bank of the same French river as before. Breadsticks, crabs, bass, carp, pike, soup, pasta, chicken, duck, potatoes and pork; anything you could have thought of at the time was sitting on those three long tables. The mood was hearty and sweet and the circles of heavy-garmented folk around the tables were laughing and talking about the night before.

It wasn't often that the Family of this individual Bateau had an opportunity such as this: where they could all eat and talk without the slightest worry or care. It was thanks to a rather plentiful trade the week before, that the Family was in such good spirits now. Six days ago, the Bateau had stopped at a large town and a few men had gone to try and trade for supplies. To the intense surprise of the rest of the Family, upon the men's return, they brought news of a great prize. So great, that they needed the rest of the men to come back with them to carry all the new cargo. It took the Bateau's twenty men three whole journeys to and from the town, to bring everything aboard. The children had squealed, the women had nearly fainted, and the men were laughing their heads off. Along with the enormous amount of food listed above, the men had brought back new clothes, four delicate chairs, three sets of china - and one grand piano. One of the most plentiful -or more likely- _the_ most plentiful trade they had ever gotten into, there was more than enough reason for an extended celebration.

Of course, somewhere along the line of all these events the women and children had asked the inevitable question of what the men had traded in return for their treasures. It was plainly impossible for the men to have gotten so much for free. And so they had asked, and the men had answered. Juan, the leader of the trading company, had replied with one simple, yet believable sentence: "We offered what we had and they accepted." At least, these words were believable coming from Jacque. The man was tall, lank, and dominating. He was without question, the leader of the Family – not just the trading company. His requests went without query, and he spoke them in few words. No one argued with him when he shared this story, and instantly accepted it.

Only Roslin, the little eight-year-old girl from the party, had had any doubt as to Juan's account.

"He's lying," she had simply said.

But even her doubts had been crushed in the end; one couldn't help but follow along when your Family was setting the example. And with both her father and Roux accepting Juan's story openly (at least on the outside), she could do nothing but believe him too. And so it was that the suspicions were dismissed.

Now, on the sixth day since the great trade, they Family was still in extremely high spirits that refused to let up. No matter how many snags they hit in the river or lines broke in the wind- their attitude was unwavering.

The next stop on their list was Lyon, another large French town. This was close to Vienne, but too far away to actually visit. One crew member in particular was actually rather relieved that they had not ventured over the boundaries of Vienne. But alas, he wouldn't say why, let alone voice this opinion to the Family. Instead, the man kept his feeling secret and hidden so as not to draw back painful memories. He couldn't let that happen under any costs- and it wouldn't.

"It's still so hard to believe," spoke up one woman next to Roux as they all sat around the three tables.

"What's so hard to believe?" Another woman asked. She leaned across the table and helped herself to some cailles et poivre.

"All this!" The first woman exclaimed. She slammed the table with her fist and laughed. "I'm incredible!"

"Sincerely," said Roux, "In'it a surprise that we didn't have things thrown at us like last time?"

"Quite," said the second woman, who quickly took a bite of her cailles to hide the blush that had covered her face at Roux's words. Roux however, tried not to notice her feminine mannerisms – the stares and giggles woman often made around him caused a lot of uneasiness for his part.

"You're completely right," said the first woman with a laugh. "I remember that day. All the women came out throwing dishes!"

An older man nearby huffed loudly as he helped himself to a plate of scrabbled eggs. "If you're going to throw dishes as people, you'd better not throw the good china – that's what I say. Those lunatics were hurling Polish Willowware for pete's sake..."

The Family was still enjoying their grand celebration, and the Bateau was busy tugging its smaller companions gently down the river, that something quite interesting happened.

"Roux," said a voice from behind him.

The guitarist turned. He was more than a little surprised to see Juan standing there and not at his usual place at the head of the table. Roux's eyes flicked over the rest of his kin before answering.

"Aye," he said simply.

"I need to talk to you."

Once again, Roux made a quick scan of the tables, perhaps looking for spectators. "Now? I don' know... can't it wait until after breakfast? I'm a wee bit hungry - "

Juan laughed kindly. "I'm afraid not, I won't have the time later, savvy?" He started to walk away, not even bothering to gesture Roux's following.

Roux scoffed. _Savvy?_ Juan wasn't meant to use that word, that was Roux's word. Big boss Juan and his big ego. Roux wasn't the sort of man you ordered around unless it was by somebody extremely bossy... like... Roslin...

There was a loud clang of silverware and a long screech of metal on wood as Roux backed out his chair and left the table. It was a little irritating that Juan was basically the Family's ruler. That meant that everyone had to follow his requests, which was a total bollocks rule. How did that man ever come by such power?

This was the thought that Roux had in mind as he slouched his way over to the other side of the Bateau, where he'd seen Juan disappear. No one was in view from over here apart from two older men leaning over the railings, minding they're own business. Roux turned when a sharp whistle blew from behind him.

"What you doing in the shadows?" Roux asked suspiciously when he twisted around and saw Juan standing there.

"I've got something to show ya," he replied.

Juan's expression was one of absolute blankness. Roux didn't like it.

"What is it?" He said.

Juan gave Roux a charming grin, and then turned his attention to something in his right hand. Roux's raised an eyebrow and stared. In Juan's grasp he held a brown bag of a fair size. And from this, moments later, Juan withdrew a pair of black rubber boots with a metal buckle at the top. They were sturdy and shiny and black, and had an air of fanciness about them.

"Nice boots," the guitarist said matter-of-factly.

But Juan was grinning once again. "They're yours."

Almost stupidly, Roux made his brows meet and looked downcast at his feet, then back up at Juan. "They don't look like mine."

"I'm giving them to you, ami."

"Um..."

Then without warning a sudden wave of memory passed through Roux and he was at a total loss for words. Fourteen months ago on a warm day in the French countryside, a wonderful fixation blew through Roux's life. He and the Family had been passing through a quiet little town where a sly wind seemed to blow in from the north. It had seemed like any other town, yes, if not a little bit strict. Roux hadn't seen it coming at the time, but things happened in that town that would change his life, and make him rethink his way of living. He met an angel, Vianne by name, who stole Roux's heart for the first time in his life.

It was in this town, at this time, when he met this woman, that Roux bought his pair of boots; the same pair of boots that he wore now. They were broken in and of a grayish-brown color that matched the leather laces that crisscrossed in front of them. Roux wore these boots each and every day he was with Vianne (apart from that one night at Madame Voizin's birthday party) and that was the reason he kept them so sentimentally now.

"Well aren't you going to say anything?" Juan asked suddenly.

"I'm sorry? Oh," Roux was brought back to the present. His eyes glanced at the boots in Juan's hands again.

"You could say thank you," Juan mocked. He pushed the boots into Roux's hands.

"Hmmm...," said Roux. "I don't think I can take these, mate."

"Why not? They're a gift, you can take them."

"No," said Roux, more cogently this time. He placed the boot back into Juan's hands. "I can't. Thanks though."

And before Juan could protest, Roux was gone around the side of the Bateau. He didn't go back to the tables though, but instead chose to climb over the Bateau's low, wooden side and into his own boat.

He loved this place, possibly more because of one person. It was the same boat that he and Vianne had spoken in the night of the fire a year ago. Well, they might have done a little more than spoken but – the intimacy of the night is what counted. Roux's heart dropped every time he entered his boat and Vianne was not there. That fateful night the Family's old Bateau had burned down in that little town but at least they'd had the power to replace it. Roux could never replace what he'd lost in that wretch of a town. It was this thought that let Roux drift from conscious to unconscious. That Vianne couldn't be replaced, and what a titanic mistake he had made by turning her away.


End file.
